


in strawberry time (happier I when all is done)

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [234]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baking, Boys in the Kitchen, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Formenos, Gen, Mostly...I mean there's a little angst in here, Mother's Day, Mr. Finney's turnip was written by Longfellow when he was 9, a little tribute, it was Mother's day last Sunday and it's Nerdanel's birthday next week so, title from a poem by Florence Randal Livesay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: They were all in the kitchen—even Curufin had been, until a moment or so ago, when he slunk out with the promise of fetching eggs—because Maedhros was come home. It being Mother’s birthday on the first Sunday since his and Maglor’s return, Maedhros grew bold and shooed her out of her own kitchen, that her sons might bake her something fine.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo & Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [234]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	in strawberry time (happier I when all is done)

“Why is it,” Amrod asked, with his chin on his hands, and a streak of flour down his brow and nose, “That some vegetables are made into cakes, and some are not?”

He said vegetables in four, very careful syllables.

Maedhros had his knuckles pressed against his lips, and a very thoughtful grimace in place of flour on _his_ brow, and so did not immediately answer.

Caranthir said, his arm moving round and round the big mixing bowl in careful strokes,

“Carrots are sweet. Pumpkins are sweet. Something like a potato isn’t.”

“Or a turnip,” Amras pointed out.

“Oh, yes,” Celegorm said. The wicked angle of his grin made him resemble Athair. It was rare that they looked alike. “Remember how we sang about Finney’s turnip, but as Carrie’s? _Little Carrie had a turnip, And it grew, and it grew, And it grew behind the barn, And the turnip did no harm._ ”

Caranthir pretended to ignore him, but his ears and cheeks turned very red and spoiled the effect. Maedhros reached out with his other hand, tweaked Celegorm gently by the ear and said,

“Have a strawberry, you blackguard.”

They were all in the kitchen—even Curufin had been, until a moment or so ago, when he slunk out with the promise of fetching eggs—because Maedhros was come home. It being Mother’s birthday the first Sunday since his and Maglor’s return, Maedhros grew bold and shooed her out of her own kitchen, that her sons might bake something fine.

Maedhros was eighteen now, and full a man, as Athair was fond of saying.

The turnip, of course, was an old story among them. Celegorm had only raised it because he was aloft with the joy of the homecoming, and ready to deliver taunting scorn with even more vigour than usual.

Curufin did not come back with the eggs. Caranthir was half-relieved at his absence.

Meanwhile, Maedhros finished his ministrations with the piecrust, and requested a fork. Maglor bested Amras in fetching one, and this caused another minor fracas, but in the end—

The edges were beautifully spread and pricked.

“What are the eggs even _for_?”

“I thought of making a custard. But perhaps not.” Maedhros fitted the heel of his hand beneath his chin, and tapped one temple with his fingers. “Athair doesn’t even care much for custard.”

“Not _for_ Athair,” Celegorm pointed out, dragging himself upright from the bench at which he’d been seated, offering little help other than to predict which hen should lay that day. “It’s _Mother’s_ supper.”

Maedhros relented and restored his plans for custard. But, he recommended, they should serve it as a separate dish, a delicate complement to their strawberry-stores. That way, they could fill the tin near to bursting with the fresh fruit.

While the pie baked, Maedhros stirred the custard steadily, so that it might not curdle. Caranthir had found him another egg or two. Amrod dragged up a stool, stood upon it, and began to work braids into Maedhros’ hair.

Celegorm might have been expected to scoff at this, but he sat on his bench with one knee drawn up and passed Amrod bits of string to tie the ends.

“If the ladies could see you now!” scoffed Maglor.

“ _Ladies_?” demanded the twins at once, with matching skepticism.

“There are no ladies,” Maedhros answered smoothly, shaking the three short plaits that hung over his left ear. “Maglor, you traitor, will you grate me a lemon rind? You make it so fine and neat.”

Maglor, who looked a little guilty already, had further coals heaped by way of the compliment. Meekly, he shredded one of the yellow-and-green-mottled lemons that came from Athair’s hothouse. They were experiments, those lemons, and Athair was not pleased with their yield. He had intended to burn the tree to its roots and start anew, but Mother insisted on using the ugly fruits. When his temper had cooled, Athair found that there was still _something_ to be learned from the endeavour.

Nerdanel kept her word and stayed out of the kitchen. Yet, in the rose garden where she sat sewing, she could not help hearing their voices—their laughter—carrying on the breeze. She was fiercely glad, with a mother’s nervous triumph, to see that Maedhros had come home and was happy, just as she had seen him happy in the city that seemed so far away.

She loved all her children as best she could, but she took particular pride in her eldest. It was impossible to see the rest of her sons but through the lens of him: the first baby and his first babble, his first steps, his first scrapes.

Feanor found her in the rose garden. Curufin was with him, nursing a slight burn on one thumb.

“You look so quiet here,” he said, as if peace bemused him. Nerdanel smiled; she knew it did. “Is all well?”

When he looked at her like this, like she was the only being he could see or know, she was as flattered as she had been twenty years ago.

“The boys are concocting something splendid,” she answered. She decided not to scold Curufin for abandoning them; that would be ungenerous, and he always preferred his father’s company. “They have a little of the feminine in them after all.”

“The kitchen is not solely a feminine province,” Feanor said, sitting down beside her. Curufin drifted off. “If we had had a daughter, I would have trained her in the forge as well, so it stands to reason that our sons are skilled at cookery.”

Nerdanel kissed his mouth; he moved to kiss her neck.

“I really did think,” Feanor murmured, “That we might have a daughter.”

It was an old grief of his. “I am afraid you have used me up, my love,” she said, smiling so that he could be sure she was not vexed. “But do not mind it. Your sons will become men and have families of their own, will they not? A granddaughter would bring you joy, I am sure of it.”

_Sure. I am sure of it._

She must always comfort him, even when he comes to invade her peace.

“Oh, bless us,” cried Caranthir, unable to contain himself. “Now, _there’s_ a pie!”

“Bleeding a bit at the edges,” Maedhros muttered, but he brightened. “We’ll glaze a few more berries and arrange them to cover the flaws.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” said Maglor, hypocritically. When he put his mind to the making of something, perfection was indispensable.

“Of course it does,” said Maedhros, and he smiled full and bright. 


End file.
